In my family, we didn't have problems - we drank. Alcohol was a part of every celebration and a part of every sadness. It was a comfort, a lubricant, a relaxer, and a tradition. Drinking, heavy drinking, was normal. There was, at least for me, an understanding that one could drink as much as one wanted as long as things got done and appearances were kept up. I was eight years younger than my sisters and I know through veiled hints and overheard conversations that there were events that were never discussed in my presence. This maintaining illusions continued long after we had all become adults. Problems were not something you talked about. You dealt with the immediate consequences on your own, you moved on, and you drank. I don't know if this is how the rest of the family viewed it because we certainly didn't talk about it.
Three children, three lives, three different results. My oldest sister had some kind of awakening when my mother died in 1997, scaled back her drinking and got serious about exercise and healthy living. I drank myself into treatment six years ago, where I had to finally face the fact that alcohol was a primary problem not a primary solution. My other sister drank herself to death five months ago. Two years earlier, she said to me "I hate saying I'm an alcoholic because I think our parents raised us to be better drinkers than that."
Whatever happened in the past, whatever effect it may have had on my life, needs to be remembered, even (gasp!) talked about, but I can't wallow in it. I can't live in the past and recover. Recovery happens in the now.